


Baste My Ham With Your Sweet Glaze

by Ekekeke_baybee



Category: Hell's Kitchen (US TV) RPF, Kitchen Nightmares RPF
Genre: Bad Cooking, Cooking Lessons, Eventual Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:34:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22865626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ekekeke_baybee/pseuds/Ekekeke_baybee
Summary: A Gordon Ramsay fanfic. Does the chef have a soft spot for others? Is anyone straight?? Why does cooking have to be so hard???
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter One: Burning Water and Ice

Chapter One: Burning Water and Ice 

It all started with his hands. The camera panned over his hands to show a close up of the garnish on the dish of the show. I learned early on that watching Hell’s Kitchen to improve my own cooking skills was futile, but somewhere along the way, I became obsessed with the show. What a ridiculous concept, to lust over the least erotic part of the body. Yet there they were. Strong, veiny, muscular; meticulous manicure. So much care had been put into them, knowing that they would only be seen for a few minutes at most. Touched by morsels much less worthy of knowing his caress.  
From then on, regardless of not being a great cook, I watched the show to see more of him. Everything he did suddenly became magical to me. His eyes, full of anger and conviction; his voice, rough and jagged, yet soft enough to comfort and compliment; his aura, the way he demanded respect was enough to make anybody’s ricotta crumble. I had to have him. I craved him. Gordon Ramsay had be mine, of that I was sure. The only thing I was unsure of was how I would achieve this savory task.  
A mountain of obstacles stood in my way. For starters, we don’t even live on the same side of the globe. And even if he did happen to visit America from across the pond, Ramsay would have no reason to stay in New York for too long. Other than to film a few episodes about our luxury restaurants, he would not even consider stopping at the east coast. I knew that this silly crush of mine was, more than anything, based on fantasy. Even now as I stare intently at the apple of my eye, I know that any of my efforts towards the married man would be futile.  
“My tears are louder than they should be, '' I sniffle to my cat Bartholomew. His meow and glare at the kitchen confuse me. And then I smelled it; I had nearly forgotten about my clam chowder! The pot had begun boiling and huge drops of the creamy concoction had begun to splatter onto my stovetop. On rainy nights like this, I like to cheer myself up with some tea and comfort food. Originally being from Rhode Island and spending a majority of my free time at my family’s seafood restaurant, fish is one of my staple and comfort food. Now here I am, hovering over burnt chowder and crying at my apathetic loneliness.  
I don’t know how I managed to mess this dish up. I have made this dish countless times; one of the few recipes I know by heart. My parents never really let me work in the kitchen growing up. They said I was too clumsy and stiff to completely immerse myself into the culinary arts. All of my family members are involved in the food industry but me. My older brother owns a bakery in Massachusetts with his wife and his friend from college. My younger sister is a bartender at the four seasons. My youngest brother is a prodigy cook with my parents, always coming up with new dishes for the restaurant he’s sure to inherit someday.  
I'm the black sheep. I came to NYU with the hopes of being a journalist covering important and pressing subjects. It’s been two years since I graduated, and all I’ve managed to write are a few obituaries and side pieces for local papers and information brochures for sketchy travel companies.  
It’s pointless to even bother salvaging the yellow goop at this point so takeout it is. At least I don’t live far from work, so the rain won’t drench me too bad. If it weren’t for my job as a waitress I wouldn't be able to afford to feed myself. Though I might have been an awful kitchen aid growing up, at least I made up for it with people skills.  
Serving people isn’t as bad as its made out to be. You meet many interesting folks. It happens much less at my current job. The clientele is always the same. Rich men in power suits with their flavor of the week on their arms. Throwing bundles of cash at servers to display their wealth and generosity. It makes for a steady income, yet there’s something dirty about it. Flirting with your clients is, of course, how you secure a nice tip, yet I feel like a fancy whore. Panhandling with a uniform is what my coworkers and I have called it.  
I’ve arrived soon enough to work. It’s almost closing time so I know some orders have been sent back. I hope a steak was too dry today. Variety, and protein, are important. The backdoor is slightly ajar. By the looks of it, someone was in the middle of taking out the trash. “Smart boy,” I muttered as I entered the warm glow of the eerily dead kitchen ecosystem. I had texted Frankie on my walk over to unlock the back door, but he hadn’t responded. My current favorite busboy, cleancut and fresh faced, a teenage runaway. The streets corrupted him by replacing his heart with a fountain of compassion. Looking into his big doe eyes, you could almost feel bad about the three champagne bottles you’ve spilt on the linen tablecloth. He’s such a sweet puff, how he is still single is beyond me.  
Our head chef Ursula is in charge today. What a bore. She despises when I take home our rejects. She sees them as reminders of all the other staff's incompetence. It truly is a pleasure seeing her purse her lips in disappointment. One her many motherlike traits.  
“What’s on the menu today chief?”  
Ursula rolls her eyes. She sees me as a small town joke; the biggest disgrace to the restaurant. Calling her any title but “chef” ruffles her feathers so much, it's almost comical.  
I reach for a roll in a basket that seems to be older than three hours. “Slow night?” The answer is so obviously yes, but something about her slumped shoulders tells me there’s something other than the lack of business bothering her. The old hen might have a stick up her cloaca, but I still hate seeing people distraught.  
The bread is chewy. I need butter for my roll. Something is wrong.  
“We have company, perhaps behave with more class”. She slaps the sad morsel from my hand.  
“Company? What do you mean; we just had our health inspection two months ago.” Although taking from the kitchen wasn’t against the rules, I knew from my own parents’ experience that it was best not to be seen dipping into your own stash, or rather the customers’ leftovers. Not that anyone else here would take food home. Most of the staff, save for Frankie, Arturo, and I, are too proud to do so.  
“I don’t have time for your disruptive questions, leave my kitchen before I toss you into the soufflé!” Ursula clomped over to the pastry table to chew out a different subordinate.  
I can see Frankie attending to the small pile of dishes accumulated at his station.  
“Hey thanks for the door distraction, but why didn’t you tell me Mother Goose was in a bad mood? I would have gotten Chinese if I knew she’d slap the bread out of my hand!”  
Frankie looked distracted. “Oh Cammie I didn’t even see your text! You should really leave, today isn’t a good day for you to nab from the kitchen. Didn’t you read the message board?”  
“Damn, no; you know I hate looking at that thing,” the message board was the worst form of communication ever implemented here. The owner of the restaurant doesn’t like to come in person to check up on us, his priorities are in all the ratings we get from renowned food critics. “Spill, what’s so important you can spare some leftovers?”  
“I didn’t say th—“  
“Please sir, may I have some more?” I tried my best to sound like little Oliver from Oliver Twist. My lip was jutted out, and the puppy dog eyes were in play.  
“Making fun of my accent, are you?”, an angry voice spike sternly behind me. I stood still. The skin on the back of my neck tingled. That conviction and tone. It couldn’t be. I am dreaming. This is just a weird fever dream. “Face me and answer the question,” the voice spoke again, and I could feel my skin goosing up like a cold turkey.  
I turn my head slowly and there he is. In the flesh. Chef Ramsay. A dream. He looks angry. Probably because a random damp woman is standing in the middle of his kitchen. However there’s something more behind his eyes. Compassion. His eyes are asking me if I’m okay. They’re asking me to share my sorrows.  
And all I can do is stare. “Chef…”.


	2. Chapter Two: A Spoonful of Salt and a Pinch of Sugar

Chapter Two: A Spoonful of Salt and a Pinch of Sugar

“Will someone please tell me who the hell let this woman in; she’s creating a puddle in the middle of the kitchen!” he barked.  
“Chef, I am so terribly sorry. She works here, but she knows better. She was just picking up her purse that she forgot, right Cammie?”  
Ursula might not like me, but she hates not having control of situations even more. “Right, I was just on my way out, I’m so sorry.”  
He puts his arm up to stop me. I cannot argue. “We are almost done here; go wait in the backroom so I can educate you about manners in the workplace.” His command has paralyzed me. How is it possible that he is here, telling me what to do? Glaring deep into my soul with his ocean eyes. His eyes look tired. “Can you hear me? Hello?”  
“Ah, yes, right away chef,” I lowered my gaze and scurry to the break room. I must have looked so stupid just ogling him in front of the whole kitchen staff. The break room is small. It can seat no more than four of us at a time. It houses a small coffee pot, a row of coat hooks, and a dull round table with sad polyester chairs to match. There used to be a water station in the corner, but with the constant accumulation of glasses on the table, we were told to bring our own reusable cups. Not a bad change, except when you forget your bottle and go the whole night parched and unable to look away from the pitcher of water in your hand.  
Right now, I wish the water station were still here. The room felt dry and my throat was a desert. It is too quiet, too still. There needs to be another sign of life in this dead space. The random sound of air bubbles rising to the increasing empty space at the top of the jug would at least ground me back into the dark room; rather than the infinite scenarios going on in my head.  
Could he fire me? No, no, NO. I don’t even know why he’s here. Maybe the paper on the message board says something? I can’t believe I didn’t check the damn thing. I see the note now, and how I could possibly miss it is beyond me. There it is, written on a bright orange sticky note: 

CRITIC COMING ON THURS  
REDUCED STAFF  
BEST ONLY

What the hell, I wasn’t on the schedule for today; what gives?! I didn’t know our restaurant was even good enough to warrant the attention of esteemed food critics, much less famous ones that have their own cooking shows and live halfway across the globe. Although reviews were his top priority, Mr. Champignon has done very little to attract the attention of them. It could have something to do with the fact we were one of the last places Anthony Bourdain ate at. They were good friends, and his absence seems to haunt the place. He really was my favorite customer to serve.  
Ursula burst into the room with a face redder than a tomato. “If you think for even a minute that you continue to have a job here, you are COMPLETELY mistaken! I want you out of my kitchen once and for all. You’ve disgraced all of us today, your level of incompetence is beyond belief; if it were up to me—”  
“Well good thing it isn’t, now innit?” Chef Ramsey had been standing at the doorway long enough to hear her fire me. Long enough to see my eyes swell with tears and hands begin to shake.  
“Chef I was simply taking care of the situation, so it wouldn’t be a burden to you,” embarrassed by the unexpected audience, Ursula was stammering to form a cohesive argument for tearing me a new one.  
“Not a burden. Thank you chef, you’re excused. I’ll handle it from here.” He had such a strong sense of authority Ursula just shook her head and backed out of the room. “Shut the door behind you.” It’s just the two of us, in this small windowless room…. As much as I would want for him to just throw me on top of this table and pound me like a raw steak, I simply just start to sob instead.  
“Whoa whoa, hey love look there’s no need to cry. Have a seat, tell me your name,” he hands me a small towel from his pocket and eases me into a chair. I feel so stupid, how could I have not read the message board.  
“I just lost my job, and for what? A loaf of bread!” I just sob harder. No one’s hiring writers at the moment, and it’s not like I have good pieces to form an impressive portfolio. A million scenarios of living on the streets with a starving cat run through my mind. What am I going to do?  
“She’s just in a bad mood, and I don’t blame her. You’d be too if your workers just barged into the kitchen unannounced and wreaked havoc during an important night. Now, tell me why you were in here in the first place, what’s your name?” His voice was soft and soothing.  
“My name is Chamomile, I’ve been a server here for almost a year. I just wanted to take home some leftovers, because I burnt my chowder at home and I knew tonight would be slow so I walked over,” I sniffle. “But I didn’t read the message board, and the backdoor was open and—not that I come all the time! I’m so sorry, this just sounds so awful now that I’m saying it out loud I’m just gonna go.” I just want this embarrassing ordeal to be over. This is my own worst nightmare.  
He grabbed my hand before I would reach the door. His strong, smooth fingers interlocking with mine. He stood up and took my other hand into his own. His touch was magnetic. “Hey, no reason we can’t sort it out. I don’t mind not including this in my review. Earl and I are good friends. You can count on keeping your job, but you have to promise not to do this again, its poor etiquette.” The chef rubs a tear off my cheek. “Chamomile, you say? What a strange name,” a small smile was dancing on the corners of his mouth.  
“My parents are really into tea.”  
“I am too, but I don’t think my sons would forgive me if I named one of them Oolong.”  
I smiled at my feet. “I go by ‘Cammie’.”  
“Alright then Cammie, let’s get you home. My business is done here tonight, and there’s no reason you should walk home alone this late at night in the rain.”  
“Oh no. Really, it’s just a short walk I’ll be okay,” my heart leaped out of my throat. He could not possibly be serious. I would just about die if he saw where I lived. And to even leave together would just be chaos waiting to happen.  
“No please, I insist. Fresh air would be good for me right now anyways. Besides I love chowder,” he winks at me before grabbing his coat and opening the door. The whole kitchen falls into silence. “First of all, I would like to thank everyone here for their service this evening. Though this is hardly what I would call a very professional night, it was an eventful one nonetheless. Now I must be headed off, goodnight everyone. Bon appetite”. He nodded for me to follow, and without protest we left the kitchen the same way I entered. The rain had begun to fall steadier. We had just turned the corner before I let out a small shiver. I really should have put on my rain boots, or at least a coat before leaving the house.  
“Was it not raining when you left the house?” He put his jacket around my shoulders.  
“I didn’t think about it. Besides, it was only sprinkling when I left my apartment.” I tried to shake it off my shoulders. I couldn’t take his jacket. “Please chef, no reason the both of us should be wet.”  
“Nonsense, you’re shivering. That’s how you catch a cold. Didn’t anyone ever tell you?” He just adjusted the coat onto my shoulders properly. It smells warm, like cedar wood.  
The streets were mostly empty, and anyone that was out was hidden under an umbrella. At least this way we didn’t run the risk of someone noticing him. Not that I lived in a very popular neighborhood anyways. The restaurant was sort of an elite hidden gem. We walked in silence for the rest of the time, which was simultaneously fleeting and eternal. He kept a polite distance next to me. The silence was comforting. I could almost imagine that we were walking home from a nice dinner date, content with our meal and ready to crawl into bed together for a restful sleep. Absurd.  
We had finally reached my building. I fumble with my keys for a moment before turning to say something, but I didn’t know what to say. “Thank you for not letting Ursula fire me today. I know this looks really bad but I am good at my job.”  
“You’ll just have to show me sometime.” Was he flirting with me? No, surely it was just a cultural thing.  
“Right. Thank you chef; I truly am very sorry.”  
“Gordon.”  
“I beg your pardon?”  
“It’s Gordon. Please, there’s no need for such formalities. I’m a normal person Cammie. You’ve apologized enough for one night. I know you feel bad, and that’s really all I could ask of you. Remorse now, and change later. Now go on.” He gestures at my building.  
“Alright. Well, thank you Gordon for walking me home.” I go to hand back his jacket.  
“No it’s okay, I’ll just hail a cab to my hotel. Don’t care too much for the bloody thing anyways. Not really my color. Goodnight Chamomile,” before I knew what was happening, he kissed both my cheeks, and headed off into the end of the street, deep into this rainy New York night.  
I head into my building and up the three flights of stairs. My small apartment walls hug me as I run my left cheek. The same cheek he smoothed a tear off earlier. Bartholomew meows at me. I didn’t give him dinner before I left.  
“Looks like we’re both having late dinners tonight, bud.” I didn’t even get to finish my roll.


	3. Chapter Three: Squeeze My Oranges

Chapter Three: Squeeze My Oranges  
I woke up to a clap of thunder so loud it sounded like the lovechild of Zeus and Thor. Last night felt like a dream. Did Chef Ramsey really save my job and kiss me goodnight? Gordon, he said to call him. What intimacy.  
As I’m checking my phone in bed, I see a text from an unknown number; could it be him?   
8:17 am Do you have breakfast plans? - Gordon  
Oh God, it’s really him! A morning after text, and we didn’t even sleep together, he is such a gentleman. It’s only a little bit past nine, hopefully he didn’t change his mind.  
9:22 am Not yet, I was probably gonna eat bagels. Wanna join me??  
9:24 am Be there in 15  
Fuck how close is his hotel?? Never mind that, MY APARTMENT IS A MESS AND IT STILL SMELLS LIKE CHOWDER!!! I need to feed my cat, and brush my teeth, did I shave my legs? I jump out of bed and enter a cleaning frenzy/ My mother used to tease me about only cleaning my room when I had company over, and at this moment I wish that I had taken her more seriously. Have I always had a pile of clothes there? Wait wait, why am I cleaning my room, it’s the kitchen I should be worried about.   
I’ve always thought of my apartment as cozy. Since it is a one bedroom I have to make sure it doesn’t get too messy or the whole place feels like a hoarder’s apartment. Okay so it’s not that bad, just a few dishes and a quick scrub on my stove. I need to feed Bartholomew. I wonder if he likes cats. If not, at least Barthy is hypoallergenic.   
As soon as I finish whipping down the last of my mess from last night, I hear my phone go off. As I answer I rush to my window to see that he’s really there. He looks so put together. “Hey there, uhh are you outside?” A dumb question since I can clearly see him.   
“Yeah, uhh I realized I don’t know your apartment number, otherwise I would have buzzed that I’m here.” As he says this, he looks up and flashes me the smallest of smiles. “May I come in?”  
This all feels like a dream. “Yeah please, it's number 302, I’ll buzz you in.” Can he see me blushing? Before I know it he’s knocking on my door, and I rush to open it. “Hi.”  
“Good morning,” he eyed me up and down and a playful smile spread across his face. “You look comfortable,” he said as he stepped inside. I suddenly realised I was still wearing my pajamas and must have looked a mess. Because of the rain last night I just threw on an oversized shirt and some boy shorts to sleep in. Does he think I did this on purpose?  
“Sorry for the indecency, I’ll go change right now.”  
“Don’t be silly Cammie, this is your house after all. I should be the one apologizing for intruding.” He picked up my hand and stroked the tops of my fingers, “you don’t have to change unless you’re uncomfortable. You look lovely.”  
“Let’s eat,” I said, breaking away, unable to keep up his gaze. “You like your coffee black right?”  
“How did you know that?”  
“Intuition I guess,” shrugging off the question. How could I tell him I memorized that from one of his online interviews, then he’d know for sure I am obsessed with him. Yet as I began setting up the coffee pot and bagels in the toaster, everything felt so natural. Like we had been doing this for years. “Why did you feel the need to stop by, do you want your jacket back?”  
“Oh no, I said you could keep that. I meant it; besides it looks better on you than it ever did on me. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Things can sometimes get a little hectic when I check out a restaurant, but I don’t think I’ve ever caused someone to lose their job. I felt like I needed to come apologize to you.”  
I was blushing so hard my cheeks looked like cherry tomatoes. I can’t believe I almost got fired! I had totally forgotten in the commotion of meeting Gordon. “I promise I am a better employee than you have seen. Being in the kitchen just feels like home and I just want to feel like I belong…” I was hit with a sudden feeling of homesickness. The toaster went off before I could begin to overshare, “what spread would you like?”  
“Butter will suffice.” His eyes were cutting me open like a brisket. What does he make of me?  
“How long will you be in town for?” I really meant to ask ‘when will I see you again?’.  
“About ten days. I’ll be filming for the next seven however, all around the city. Would you like to join me?” His forehead was wrinkled inquisitively.  
“ Are you serious? What would I even do?”   
“What you're doing right now. Sit there and look pretty. We need extras to say their experience on the food in case not enough real patrons sign the release form. You’d be a part of the crew and eat a nice meal as well. Besides, it would give us an excuse to see each other without raising suspicions,” he winked. “I apologize if I am coming on too strong, but I just can’t get my mind off you”.  
“Gordon, I don’t know what to say. Won’t people notice that the same person is giving reviews? And I still need to show up to my job, now more than ever since Ursula will be looking for an excuse to put me on the chopping block any minute now”  
“Then come on the days you don’t work. And the editing crew is smarter than you think. If you feel uncomfortable don’t feel obligated, I am just being selfish.” He pulled out his phone and started typing something. “Here are the taping times and locations for the next few days. Text me if you come by,” the nervous smile on his face was so endearing.  
My phone dinged. “I’ll think about it,” I had never been the type to play hard to get, but saying he was being selfish brought something out of me. I want to know how bad he wants me.  
“That’s all I ask. I’ll take my leave now,” and before I could finish chewing, he kissed my forehead and left. The room felt electric. Maybe I should turn the coffee pot off.


End file.
